The Sons of Northam
by Jammer69er
Summary: On the distant dust-bowl world of Northam Prime, Matthias Grendel and countless others drawn from the habitats and workshops of their home planet begin their new lives in the Northam Guard. Striking out across the galaxy, none of them know what the future holds in store for them, in the grim darkness of the far future.
1. Prologue

**SONS OF NORTHAM**

 _In the grim darkness of the far future, there is only War._

 **Prologue**

 **THEN**

 **101.946.M41, Northam Prime, Segmentum Obscuras**

There were seven statues.

Each one was twenty feet tall and cast in solid bronze, polished to a reflective shine and lovingly attended to stave off the agents of decay. Six of them formed a rough circle that surrounded the seventh, central figure of an old and hunched man wearing the long coat and uniform of a Navy Captain. His face - complete with a perfectly-groomed moustache and bearing a monocle - was forever locked into a pensive expression, as he stared out across the grand city of _Endeavour,_ named after the captain's old ship.

He was Jeremiah Northam, the intrepid Explorator Captain who had lead his fleet out to this corner of the Segmentum Obscuras nearly three hundred years beforehand and had settled this dusty rock of a planet. A small plaque was affixed to the rockcrete base of the statue, bearing three simple words that had now been engraved into the minds of every resident of the Northam system.

 _I see potential._

Those words were spoken to his fellow subordinate captains, when all of them tried to convince him to move on, to seek a more suitable planet to colonise. But the wily old man was convinced that the planet held unseen potential, and stayed his course. And the rest was history.

The remaining statues depicted his six immediate captains from that fleet, who had gone on to found the six major noble families of Northam, each one holding sway over one of the planet's major cities. Nathan Flynn with his roguish expression and long, flowing coat was instantly recognisable, as the founder of Flynn's Respite and the great hero of The Uphill Struggle. Opposite him was the distinguished figure of Cormac Kessler with his spectacular waxed moustache, and next to him was Lilith Parker, identifiable by the shoulder-high cane she was standing with, and the imperious look about her narrow, blade-like face. The bronze was not painted or coloured in any way, but the Founders were still recognisable from their silhouettes and individual bearing. Every child of Northam Prime learned each figure off by heart.

The young boy – blonde-haired and blue eyed and tall – turned back from the statues, standing at the very centre of the city's Grand Plaza, a huge open space paved with marble flagstones, grand fountains cast in steel and silver, and dozens of benches for visitors to come and see the sights. On a regular basis pilgrims came to Northam Prime to gaze upon the grand plaza, even from half a Segmentum away. It was a fitting tribute to the potential of mankind, and of an old man's simple belief in himself and those around him.

Right now, it was full of a different group of people. Most of them were young, eager, fresh-faced, but there were a good number of older men there too, some of them milling about in groups, though the majority had joined a long line which reached to the North end of the plaza, into the shadow of the city's grand cathedral. Either side of the line was watched over by pairs of men, either in the brown uniform of the Adeptus Arbites, or in the blue armour of the Northam Guard, the golden trim of their uniforms marking them out as members of the 1st Regiment, or the 'Honoured' as they were known.

Centuries ago – after the Uphill Struggle which nearly destroyed the fledgling Imperial colonies of the Northam System – the 1st Northam Guard regiment had sacrificed much to aid in the great victory then, and in recognition for their service and sacrifice, the regiment had been granted the honour of standing an eternal vigil on their home planet. Maintained at a constant number of ten thousand, the 1st Honour Guard would stand their ground against any and all threats to their home planet, providing a solid boost to the main PDF forces. Most of the Honour Guard on duty today were on patrol, though there was the odd group here and there, clustered around Chimera carriers and other vehicles, talking amongst themselves and even to the odd visitor who asked them a question.

The Arbiters were less approachable though. Most of them were in their full armour with the visors down, with shotguns or auto rifles cradled in their hands and watching the crowds of milling civilians carefully. Sometimes they would move lingering groups on, barking out curt commands with their vox-amplified voices.

"Move on, citizens!" snapped the closest one, sounding more like some artificial construct than a human. The boy hurried along on command, joining the long snaking line of people stretching far into the distance, towards the base of the grand _Cathedral of the Founders_ , centre of the Ecclesiarchy's power on Northam Prime. Its main spires towered a hundred feet above the plaza and its thronging visitors, threading their patient way towards a line of tables in the shadow of the great building.

The boy tried to crane his neck to peer down towards the front of the line, but it was no use. He was too far off and there were far too many people in the way for him to make anything out. The people in line were all men of various ages, shapes and sizes, though there was a predominance of PDF troopers, many of them still in their uniforms. They were all eager, excitedly speaking between themselves. Here was their chance to get off-world finally rather than being chained to Northam Prime's rock and dust for the rest of their careers.

But then again, today was a day to be celebrated. Segmentum Command were launching a new crusade to quell a sudden heretic uprising in the neighbouring sector, and they required fresh fighting men for the endeavour, including a significant tithe of an extra fifty thousand troops from Northam Prime. The soldiers of the Northam Guard were well known for their numerous victories against the Orks in this part of Imperial space, especially against those in the nearby Apotheosis system who were a constant threat to Northam and her system, along with their excellent discipline on and off the battlefield. Thus, they were in high demand in at least a dozen war theatres, and growing.

It took nearly two hours for the boy to finally get close enough to the front of the line to see the line of tables ahead of them. They were staffed by Munitorium clerks in red clothing, backed up by men from both the Arbites and the 1st Honour Guard who stood behind the clerks, weapons visible. There was a veritable pile of papers and other miscellaneous items spread across the tables, and each man who approached the tables was asked a curt series of questions before a decision was made. Some of the men were given a form and a nub of graphite and moved on, while others were turned away entirely, either due to their occupation being noted as an 'essential' one, or they were PDF soldiers who couldn't be taken on lest they leave their main postings understaffed.

One of them argued at length with the male clerk in front of them, who just had this glazed, tired look that all drones of the Munitorium seemed to share, speaking in a monotonous tone that suggested great fatigue. The PDF man wasn't taking no for an answer though, hunched right over the desk, palms flat on the wood. He only backed off when an Arbites officer racked their shotgun and aimed it at the man, ordering him away with a curt blast of vox-enhanced voice. The PDF soldier retreated, cursing and promising a reckoning that would never come.

Ten minutes later, the boy was second in line. He could hear the conversation between the nearest clerk and the man in front of him. This clerk was female, younger than the first but still with that same vacant, exhausted look all Munitorium staff seemed to wear. She was asking the man in front of her a series of questions about occupation, current living condition, and so forth. Occupation was always important if the recruit held some vital job on the world. A minute later, the clerk seemed satisfied and passed some papers and some graphite to the man, who took them and moved on, where he was promptly given a bulging kit bag which was thrust into his arms without fanfare, and he staggered away.

" _Next!"_ a voice barked, and the boy looked up and around, briefly caught off-guard.

"Go on, you're holding up the rest of us!" snarled a voice behind him, and then someone drove a palm into the back of his shoulder and he stumbled forwards.

"Name?" the clerk then asked. The boy swallowed nervously, then looked the woman right in the eye and gave his answer.

"Gaius Nova."

"Any debilitating medical conditions or illnesses? Are you taking any form of medication?"

"No and no."

"Age?"

"Eighteen," he answered, which was the minimum for recruitment in this system. The clerk seemed satisfied as she made one final scrawl on her slate, and then passed Gaius his own forms and a stylus with which to fill them in.

"The Emperor Protects," the woman said, then looked past him at the next in line. _"Next!"_

Then the young man – still a boy in some regards – was ushered along to the next in line, to another Munitorium clerk who practically tossed a bulging backpack at the boy, which Gaius caught with a little difficulty, and then staggered off to find a place to sit down and complete his forms. He found a relatively shaded spot in the shadow of the cathedral's flank and sat himself down, surrounded by dozens of others like him: men of all ages and sizes, from all walks of life, here to do their service to the Emperor. To leave this dust bowl of a world behind and set out across the stars.

Less than an hour later, they all filed into the cathedral's nave, hundreds of them, and they all crouched at the far end, in front of the main altar, in order to take their oaths to the Emperor and to the Imperium, becoming fully fledged Guardsmen before they left world. In that moment, crouched on the marble tiles of the cathedral nave, repeating the oaths as they were recited by the bishop in his crimson finery, stood at the pulpit, Gaius Nova would always remember that singular instance of feeling like part of something significant, something huge.

This was what he was born for.

Then they were packed into the troop transports – hundreds of them packed in as tightly as bluebait fish – and they were jetting away off planet, up into the massive ships in low orbit, readying to take them onto their very first posting as Northam Guard. Some nightmare realm, half a sector away, bathed in mud, blood, ruins and the madness that frequently came with any warzone. He glanced around at the faces he could see, every one of them a complete stranger. Most of them wore the solemn look of men who were fully aware of what was to come, but they accepted it nevertheless. This was their duty after all.

Gaius Nova glanced up towards the ceiling of the hold, feeling the subtle vibration and hum of the vessel he was stood in. He was about to see how dark and savage the galaxy could be, and he didn't care a jot.

 **NOW**

 **201.968.M41, Northam Prime, Segmentum Obscuras**

There were seven statues.

Each was twenty foot tall and cast from bronze, each one depicting Old Man Northam and his six captains which would form the planet's six main founding noble families, their living descendants still ruling over Northam's people. The statues were showing the unmistakable green shade of corrosion on some of the more exposed areas, but otherwise they were maintained well enough to give an impression of each figure's character and personality: Nathan Flynn's roguishness, Shay Castor's calm nature, or Lilith Parker's shrewd intellect.

Much the same as it was twenty-two years ago, another huge crowd of Northam men had gathered, in order to give themselves to the Emperor's service and fight against His enemies the galaxy over. But this time security was much higher, following the suppression of a recent secessionist uprising. Though swiftly crushed by a unit of Northam PDF, the authorities were taking no chances: Leman Russ tanks idled at the corners of the Plaza of Potential, while units of PDF soldiers in their Northam blue uniforms lingered here and there, lasguns on full display. The 1st Honour Guard occupied reinforced bunkers and sandbag emplacements, manning heavy weapons in some cases.

But that didn't deter the eager recruits, who turned out in their thousands to enlist. Over three hundred years after the original settlement of the system, the Northam Guard had announced the formation of three new regiments: the 201st, 202nd and 203rd Northam Guard. But there was also a need of reinforcement for other existing regiments: badly mauled following their recent exploits against the Old Enemy many sectors away. The mood was generally upbeat, as groups of friends or acquaintances gathered around talking between themselves, or sometimes even complete strangers who shared a common interest as they clustered together, talking animatedly. Some of them already had received their equipment packs, bulging with all manner of essential gear for their Guard careers.

One particular young man, who had turned eighteen only a few days ago, wasn't paying attention to any of it. He was staring sideways, at the slew of recruitment posters plastered across the side of a small shrine dedicated to the Castor founding family. Most of them were old and tattered, showing classic symbols of Imperial propaganda: stern-faced Commisars beseeching others to serve the Emperor, lines of Leman Russ tanks churning on to war, skies filled with the unmistakable outline of Lightning fighters.

But a few were the most recent, showing the chiselled features of a Northam officer in a dress uniform gazing out at some unseen feature, while in the background there was a line of men approaching a recruiting station. Above the design was emblazoned in huge black lettering, _DO NORTHAM PROUD: OFFER YOUR SERVICE TO THE EMPEROR._ Certainly it had the desired effect, looking at the turnout. The line suddenly shuffled forward, and the man moved with them, moving his gaze back to staring straight ahead. The line was heading towards the base of the Cathedral of the Founders, which had added a few new spires over the last decade.

Matthias Grendel – eighteen years old standard, green-eyed and blonde-haired, and at that point in his life, resolutely afraid of nothing in the galaxy (though the future would prove him very wrong in that regard). On Northam Prime, a man his age had little to look forward to save for either a posting on a fishing trawler, or back-breaking work down in the mines, extracting ores and valuable minerals. Why else would he come down and volunteer his service to the Emperor purely on a whim?

" _Next!"_

Matthias glanced up and realised that he'd drifted to the front of the line sometime in the last ten minutes. He blinked in surprise, before he noticed the nearby PDF troops watching him warily, and he moved forwards, up to the recruiting table where the Munitorium clerks waited. He stepped up to the one in the centre, the closest one.

"Name?" the middle-aged clerk asked Matthias as he held a blank form and a stylus before him. Matthias took a deep breath and opened his mouth to answer before someone else was barking at him.

"Feline got your tongue?" growled the armed, grizzled Guardsmen standing beside the clerk, "spit it out, wretch!"

"Matthias Grendel," he replied, with a trace of annoyance of being spoken down to in such a way.

The clerk wrote the name down and then asked their next question. "Any debilitating medical conditions or illnesses? Are you on any medication?"

"No to both."

The scratch of a stylus on dataslate. "Age?"

"Eighteen."

"Occupation?"

"None." That answer drew a brief glance from the clerk and the PDF sergeant beside him, but then there was the scrape of the stylus against slate, and he continued on as though nothing had happened with his questions.

And then, just like that, it was over. The clerk tapped on his dataslate twice, and the information was sent on. "Thank you for your personals, now move along the line to my colleague and she'll get you your forms." Matthias had just about enough time to nod his thanks before he felt the hand of a PDF soldier on his shoulder and he was being ushered further along the line to another tired-looking clerk, this one a middle-aged female with greying hair.

"Fill these in and return them here," she said, sliding across a thin sheaf of forms and a nub of graphite with which to write, and Matthias scooped them up and then followed the woman's outstretched pointing hand towards an area off to the cathedral's flank, filled with milling recruits who were sat on upturned boxes or cross-legged on the dusty flagstones, filling in their own forms. Matthias found himself a shady spot in the shade of the cathedral's massive white stone wall and sat himself down to complete his own forms.

He was halfway through when he stopped and glanced up and around, taking in the numerous faces that he shared the space with. There were several clusters of young men standing around together and talking, no doubt friends or fellow scholam students who had decided to enlist together, bound tightly together by the bonds of loyalty and brotherhood. But he also saw plenty more who were just standing around on their own, keeping a distance from the others, or daring to approach one another and strike up stilted conversations.

One of these loners was a big, lean-looking man leaning up against a rusty promethium drum that stood in the shadows of a PDF security post. His shaved head and rough, calloused knuckles spoke of a life of hard labour, or the very least a life of violence – making this man well-suited for a life in the Guard, some might say. His grey eyes watched the events unfolding around him with an impassive glance, as though he didn't care what would transpire next. Then there was a burst of sudden noise, and he glanced around at the same time Matthias did.

It came from one of the groups of friends standing in a huddle. There were four of them, each in the dirt-ingrained overalls of workshop apprentices, likely residents of Flynn's Respite. The focus was on an average-sized fellow with short hair that was black as Old Night, and with an easy smile on his face that suggested considerable confidence at his own natural abilities, but that smile quickly gave way to a satisfied sneer, and he looked around to take in the other surrounding faces.

His glance settled onto Matthias for a few brief moments, and then moved on as though nothing had happened, though Matthias thought he saw disdain behind the smug man's grey eyes in that instance.

With a shrug, Matthias finished completing his forms, and returned back to the line of tables with the clerks behind. "Here you go," he said, passing the papers back over. The clerk gave it a quick once-over, then put a stamp on the front page and pointed Matthias along the line to where a pair of men in the uniform of the Northam PDF were handing out Guard-issue packs, stuffed tight with all the essentials all good Guardsmen required. Matthias saw the odd recruit staggering away, arms slung low, under the pack's weight.

" _Next!"_ bellowed one of the PDF men sharply, and Matthias stepped up. "Aye, another one eager for the draft?" he asked with a slight smile beneath his grey forage cap, already reaching for a fresh pack for Matthias to take.

"Yes sir," smiled Matthias, and was just about able to get his arms up before it was shoved unceremoniously into his hands. He sagged under its weight, and then eventually had to drop it to the ground. He gasped a little as the PDF man just laughed at him.

"Ah, don't worry – after all your training that weight will be second nature to you," the man smiled, and Matthias saw for the first time his weathered and lined face. "I did ten in the 33rd Northam."

"33rd?"

"Oh yes, the Heroes of Desponsa, remember?" the man said, animated now he had the opportunity to speak about his past glories. "Where we broke the back of the Ork assault and sent them packing back out of the galaxy's edge itself? But those days of glory are gone now, young one: it's up to you and all these others to carry the torch now," he continued, indicating the other milling recruits with a sweep of his hand.

"I'll do my best, sir," Matthias answered.

"I'm glad to hear that," the man smiled, and patted his hand against Matthias' shoulder. It was only then that Matthias saw that the PDF man's left arm from the elbow down was a bionic replacement. He saw the dense bundle of muscle-weave fibres encased in steel plates, and heard the subtle whirs of servos as they worked to power the limb. But the soldier had already turned away to face the approaching recruits.

" _Next!"_

* * *

As three hundred recruits knelt down on the marbled floor of the Flynn Chapel in the Cathedral of the Founders, Matthias absent-mindedly mused on how this was his first time inside of this grand structure. In his youth he had always prayed within one of the many, tiny chapels that dotted the habs of Endeavour. But this was unlike anything he had ever seen before. His eyes were fixed on an immense carved fresco that lined the wall above the altar to the Emperor, as they took their oath to Terra. It showed the Emperor of Mankind holding the stars in his outstretched hand, looking over his armies as they marched out on the Great Crusade to retake the galaxy for humanity.

The last few years of his life, he had wanted this. To march out, to serve his race, to bring death to the enemies that banged at their doors. And so far, fate had denied him that. But no longer. He returned his gaze to the bishop at the altar leading the oath, flanked by a pair of PDF officers who recited along with the recruits.

As the oath came to an end, Matthias glanced back up at the larger-than-life depiction of the Emperor and felt his heart soar. This was it, now. This was a life that would be worth living. There was a rustle of movement as three hundred men rose to their feet at the same time, and bowed their heads, crossing their hands across their chest in the shape of the Aquila.

"The Emperor Protects," intoned the Bishop.

"The Emperor Protects," they all murmured in response.

No turning back.

 **A/N: Welcome, fellow servants of the Emperor of Mankind (or not, who knows?).**

 **Welcome to the opening entry in the first part (I hope) of the Sons of Northam saga, following the trials and tribulations of the Guardsmen of the 19th Northam Guard regiment. They were first introduced in the small ficlet I did a few years ago called The Pride of Northam, which you can of course access through the list of my stories from my profile page if you want to acquaint yourself with some of the figures who will be making a return appearance in this new story. In the meantime, please R & R: all feedback is appreciated.**

 **Jammer69er**


	2. Star of Northam

**Chapter 1: Star of Northam**

Northam Prime was not a planet settled for its natural beauty.

From orbit, it was a simple, grey dusty bowl of a planet, just over half the size of Holy Terra, marked with thorny ranges of razor-sharp mountain crags – most of these regions far too treacherous to be settled by even the most determined or suicidal – and often swathed in immense dust storms when the chill gale winds kicked up the detritus of the plains. There was little cloud cover too, so the residents had to endure a harsh sun outside of the cities and settlements. The only other feature of note on the world was its continental ocean that sat upon the planet's eastern hemisphere, though the people universally referred to it as the Northam Sea: the only part of that world which held life.

No, Northam Prime was settled owing to the suggestion of Jeremiah Northam, three centuries before. His fellow captains saw little of worth in this world, on the fringes of the galaxy, sharing its sparse system with three other tiny worlds, and wanted to move on. But Old Man Northam – relying upon that particular instinct that only considerable experience offered you – had insisted they remain and settle. And in the end, Northam's faith paid off, after vast reserves of ores and minerals were discovered within Northam Prime's crust. Initially, seven cities were founded, which grew and developed over time, fingers of towering rockcrete walls and sprawling hab blocks that crossed the dust.

Now twenty such cities marked the dusty plains, twenty constructs which appeared as dark blots from orbit, marked with thousands of twinkling lights, some of them encircling the base of mountain peaks, others sprawling along the shores of the Northam Sea, great platforms and fishing refineries reaching out into the endless blue to receive the great fishing vessels that plumbed those deeps. Others still were almost proto-Hive structures, as they started to raise towering scaffolds supporting great rockcrete, steel and adamantium peaks. And further dotting the plains and burrowing deep under the mountain rock were thousands of mining facilities, plumbing Northam Prime's crust and mantle.

Matthias could see all of this now as he peered out of the viewing port of the transport. He had little choice really: they were all pressed in as tightly as blue bait that his only view that he had when he found a comfortable position was the viewing glass in front of him while there was a general murmur of low conversation around him. There was also the odd elbow into his ribs, and the sour, dank aroma of so many human bodies pushed into the same space. He coughed and shuffled his feet a little closer together, shielding his freshly-issued pack from those around him.

"Quite the view, isn't it?" said a voice to his right, from someone pressed so close to him that the voice sounded almost thunderous, and Matthias flinched involuntarily from the sudden noise. The man was pressed in like Matthias was, so he couldn't see anything save for the sleeve of an old, moth-worn, PDF jacket in the classic 'Northam' blue, as it was called.

"Sorry?"

"Space," the voice replied, and the word prompted Matthias to look once more. This time, he could see the endless void out there, decorated with thousands of individual winking lights of the distant stars, beyond the natural curve of Northam Prime herself. "I've lived on Northam Prime my entire life, and yet we're just an infinitesimal part of this overall galaxy. It sure makes you reevaluate our place among the stars, doesn't it?"

"Yes," said Matthias, only because he felt like he needed to say something. The transport ship was starting to shudder violently as it pulled a sudden change of course, and he swallowed down his rising unease at having no control over his immediate fate, and he turned back to looking out into the endless void again.

There was something else out now, something immense. So immense, that it created a thick black void that even blotted out the stars themselves. As they drew closer and pulled in alongside the immense shape, it began to resolve into more detail. Matthias could see the cannons that bristled along its flank, saw the crenulations in its steel hide, saw the countless lights that illuminated it, and he saw the massive, towering vox masts that crested its top side.

"Emperor's breath…" he whispered, as he took in the splendour of the _Star of Northam_ , one of the many jewels of the Northam fleet.

* * *

As a Gothic-class cruiser, the _Star of Northam_ had served the Imperium faithfully for three millennia. Nearly a millennia ago it had served with the Segmentum fleet during the destructive Gothic War, back when it was known as _Last Rites_. And though it had been left on the verge of total destruction after one particularly apocalyptic engagement, she had been recovered and towed back to forge world Lucius to await a full repair and refit. Then the ancient ship had been given to the small but expanding fleet of the newly settled Northam system, in which it had served faithfully through the tumultuous times of the Uphill Struggle and several more major campaigns since. Now the vessel had just finished its latest period of refit and waited at low anchor to ferry Northam Prime's latest batch of faithful sons to wage the Emperor's wars across the galaxy.

The _Star of Northam_ hung suspended within Northam Prime's low orbit, nestled among the huge docking stations and orbital defence starforts that bristled with immense weapons that could cripple an enemy starship with a single well-aimed barrage. The likes of the _Star of Northam_ jostled for space alongside many fellow vessels from the Northam fleet, including the colossal battleships _Diem Rationis_ , that was more like a ribbed mountain of adamantium and colossal weapons hurled into orbit than a void ship.

On the bridge of the _Star of Northam_ , a semi-circular bank of consoles, cogitators and other equipment was manned by a crew of two dozen undertaking the final checks before they weighed anchor and set forth into the stars. Several of them had extensive bionics, directly plugged into their personal cogitator banks. In the centre of the massive steel chamber, a hololithic chart showed the immediate space around Northam Prime, with dozens of blinking runes marking each of the vessel's fellow ships, starforts, and other features. One could see that a trio of cruisers had already left orbit, and then suddenly vanished from the display as they engaged their warp drives and entered the Immaterium, en route to distant sectors.

"Main engines standing by," intoned one of the officers on deck. "Power idling."

"Warp drives standing by," another announced.

"Excellent," responded a clear voice from the bridge's steel and brass command throne. Sat there was a tall man in a bright red captain's uniform threaded with silver and gold, the shoulders bearing fine brass epaulettes. He drummed the fingers of his right hand against the thick arm rest of his throne, and his left was propping up his angular chin. Above that, his left cheek was sunken, the skin stretched and wasted, the product of an unfortunate accident that had nearly taken his eye when a damaged console nearly exploded in his face.

Captain Alexander Hemwick had served as Captain of the _Star of Northam_ for five decades now, though his career with the Imperial Navy had begun exactly one hundred and twenty years ago, as a comms officer on one of the many escort craft that shielded the great cruisers and battelships of the modest system fleet. Though he had lived for a hundred and fifty standard years, he retained the use of his sharp mind via expensive juvenant treatments that gave him the look of a man a third his current age – only the crow's feet around his green eyes gave some indication as to his proper age, as did the life-sustaining bionics that lined the left side of his neck, small cables trailing up to plug into his left temple.

"Weapons, readied," called out his Master at Arms. "At standby."

"Void shield generators at full capacity, Captain," intoned another officer.

"Gellar Field generators at maximum capacity, Captain," added another.

"All systems at full capacity, Captain," announced Alexander's immediate junior, Commander Hugo Javins, a perceptive and eager young officer with a lot of potential, but he still had a way to go before he gained command of his own vessel. "We are ready to weigh anchor on your word."

"Very good," sighed Alexander, "but we still have to welcome our guests aboard."

"Of course, Captain," nodded Javins, as Alexander turned his head to watch the visitors who had come onto his bridge just before. There were three of them, in the grey fatigues of Northam Guard officers: a lean Captain with short black hair and sharp eyes with a morose air about him, a stockier Major with a bionic arm and leg, and a taller man with a Colonel's pips, his left sleeve pinned up where his flesh and blood had been taken years before. They had said little so far, content to watch the crew at work as they stood at the rear of the bridge, well away from the floor where the Navy crew rushed to and fro.

"Captain, registering several craft on an approach vector," one of the signals officers announced, as several bleeping red dots appeared on the main hololithic display. "They're transmitting Northam flight codes, sir."

"Those would be the recruits," the Northam Colonel announced, his voice low but clear.

"Clear them for embarkation," Alexander ordered curtly, and the comms officer nodded as he cleared the shuttles for embarkation. By then the Northam officers were already moving to leave the bridge, the colonel giving Alexander a curt nod before he was gone. The shipmaster just nodded once to himself in reply, and turned back to the hololith display.

* * *

The embarking ramps of the carrier dropped, and Matthias sucked in a lungful of air as the crush finally subsided, and they all filed out into an immense hold space on the cruiser. Carrying his freshly-issued pack and fatigues, Matthias glanced around, marvelling at just how immense the space was.

The ceiling was a good eighty feet above them, while the side walls were a good two hundred feet apart at least: it made the Grand Plaza look like the courtyard in a noble's manse. As hundreds, even thousands of new recruits poured out of their transports and onto the cold steel flooring, they could see Navy ratings and armsmen on their patrols or passing by, along with squads of fully-fledged Northam Guardsmen, immaculate in their blue and grey livery. They watched the recruits come tromping through the hold, ignorant of the true horrors the galaxy held.

"First time on a star ship?" asked the man beside Matthias, and he recognised the voice of the man who had spoken to him on the carrier. He looked around to see an earnest-looking man in his thirties walking beside Matthias, his pack slung over one shoulder. The jacket he wore was indeed a PDF-issue one, but one that was badly frayed and faded, indicative of a long service. Although PDF units never really got a particularly generous budget, the galaxy over.

"Yes," nodded Matthias. "Yours?"

"Yup," the man nodded. "Born and raised in Endeavour, boy. Never set foot off of the planet until now. Guess I was lucky they relaxed the numbers of PDF troopers they could allow in."

"How long were you PDF?"

"Thirteen years," the man shrugged with a little smile. "In that time, the most action I saw was tracking down some bandits in the wastes. They'd been raiding the small mining outposts, hoarding the ore and minerals so they could sell it on. Even killed a few miners in the process. Until our unit corned them in a defile and cut a few of them down, the rest of them folded like a bad hand in Hearts and Titans."

"So you fancied a change?" Matthias quizzed.

"Oh yes," the man nodded with another smile. He seemed to be the type to smile a lot. "Bandits and raiders is one thing, but there's far more worthy foes out there for any respecting soldier worth their salt. Greenskins, xenos, heretics and more. But what about you anyway, boy? What made you enlist?"

Matthias started to open his mouth to speak, when a keening siren suddenly blared out from unseen speaker horns, and the horde of recruits came to a sudden halt. They looked around for the source of the sound, just as a voice boomed out at them.

" _All recruits, stand to! Officers on deck!"_

"Maybe next time," the smiling man said to Matthias, and the voices of the crowd dropped out completely. They looked about, trying to find someone approaching, but in the end, it came from above. They heard the clang of many pairs of boots upon a catwalk, and looked up to see a small crowd marching along a catwalk just above their heads. They came to a slow halt just before the crowd, spreading out to fan out across the catwalk to show a significant show of force.

The point of the spear was formed from four officers in their fatigues, themselves flanked by at least a dozen Navy armsmen, armour on, visors down, weapons readied. They stood still as statues, watching over the numerous guests they had suddenly picked up. And then further out still were figures in the unmistakable black trench coats, jackboots and peaked caps of the Commisariat: the unflinchingly ruthless discipline officers of the Imperial Guard. Their outline was unmistakable to anyone who had so much as glanced at a recruitment poster of pict broadcast, and the taste of their boot leather was all-too familiar to all manner of malcontents and miscreants within the Guard.

"Sons of Northam!" called out the leading officer in the group, a grizzled-looking man with traces of silver in his blonde hair, and his left sleeve pinned up just above where his elbow joint once laid. Matthias also saw that his right leg from the knee down was a bionic as well, though a handsomely-crafted one by the look of it. He leaned heavily on the railing with his one remaining hand, looking out across the sea of milling, impatient, young faces beneath him. Tiny, buzzing vox drones circled him, projecting his voice out across the hold.

"You have answered Northam's call, and you have answered the Emperor's call! For that, you will all have unending gratitude. But until the time you become baptised in the fires of war, you have a long voyage ahead of you. For the next six months we will be en route to our newly designated warzone, and in that time your drillers and your future commanders will mould you into the next generation of Northam's fighting men, to hold the borders of the Imperium against the alien, the traitor, and the heretic!

"Your baptism will begin at the next day cycle: so those of you lucky to own a wrist-chron, be sure to set them to the ship's own chron cycle," the officer continued, "and then, you will all be shown to your assigned quarters and your drillers will fill you in on each day's procedures. And then you are at their mercy. Listen to what they say, and follow their orders as if they were the Emperor Himself. Any disobedience will not be tolerated under their watch, or mine for that matter. And remember above all: we are guests of the Imperial Navy on their vessel, so do what they ask of you without hesitation or complaint, and we will all have a pleasant voyage."

That seemed to be the natural end of his spiel, but there was no bombastic proclamation or reassurance. Instead the officer just hammered a fist against his chest in imitation of an Old Terran salute, and then turned back to his fellows and muttered something, and then there was a sequence of quick nods, and they promptly turned and marched away, closely followed by their armsmen escort, though the Commisars remained, watching over the assembled recruits like carrion birds considering their prey.

The milling bodies looked amongst one another, and their murmuring voices began to rise up again, as they drifted back into the casual conversations they had been holding before their interruption. The man in the PDF jacket turned back towards Matthias, one eyebrow raised.

"I was expecting more than that, I must admit," he shrugged.

"More than that?" asked Matthias. "You knew who that was?"

"Of course I did," chuckled the man. "That was Gaius Nova, commander of the 19th Northam Guard."

"Gaius Nova?" asked Matthias, genuinely lost.

"You seriously haven't heard of him?" the man asked in disbelief. "The youngest man to be given company command in the Northam Guard? Who's lead them to countless victories since he became the commanding officer of the 19th regiment? He's a literal hero of legend, Matthias! And if we're lucky, we might end up serving under him."

"Really," said Matthias with a small amount of awe, as he glanced up at the catwalk as Gaius Nova and his fellow officers took their leave. Just then, there was the sharp, shrilling note of a whistle being blown, and the recruit's attention was directed elsewhere. They looked up to see a thin, blue line of Northam Guardsmen in their fatigues – sans armour and helmets – approaching. Their grizzled features and the cold and collected look in their eyes suggested each of them was a veteran trooper who had seen and experienced things none of them could ever imagine.

"Listen very carefully, as I'm only going to say this once!" bellowed a particularly scarred and worn-down man in a freshly-pressed and starched uniform, the high collar buttoned up right to below his chin. He didn't need a vox drone to be heard by the milling horde. "You're all going to be divided down into groups of forty, and each group will be assigned to their own billet room, which will act as your home for the next six months! Do not attempt to fraternise with the recruits from other billets, and try not to deface anything! We are flying on the Navy's vessel, after all. And if you do so, then you can look forward to a nice, long talk with one of the Commisars! Now shut up and wait for the drillers to make their decisions!"

With that said, he stepped away, and the other Guardsmen stepped forwards, each of them carrying some kind of swagger stick or other object to hand, which they used to promptly divide the milling crowds into smaller groups of around forty or fifty each. It was as simple as them just raising their arms and the crowds parted roughly, drawing in closer together or pulling apart to form smaller blobs of bodies. Friends made the effort to stick together, but even then there were instances were they were separated, and the lingering 'drillers' made sure that none of them could step out of line, even in the slightest. Some of them seemed a bit too 'eager' to enforce the rules too. There were a few shouted curses and threats, and maybe a few bruises left over, but nothing too visible.

Matthias ending up sticking with the man in the PDF jacket, at least. He wouldn't be stuck on his own with an entire room of strangers. His new friend gave him an encouraging nod, before the group was promptly ushered out of the hold, suddenly flanked by armsmen, a yelling driller at their back. As the Colonel had said, they were guests here, and the Navy wouldn't accommodate any form of misbehaviour, no matter how slight.

* * *

The mood had been muted within the command echelons of the 19th Northam Guard since the previous two weeks when the word first came down that they would be on the _Star of Northam_ as it made its way out into space once more, to far away theatres of war. Sure, they had spent the past three years on garrison duty of their home planet – going stir crazy and holding endless training exercises out in the dusty wastes – but the news they would finally be reinforced and then sent back into the countless wars was tempered by another, important piece of news. High Command had deigned to transfer a newly-minted officer into their ranks, a man who weeks ago had been another PDF officer. Until now that was, because of two simple reasons: his command talents for one which had recently come to the attention of Northam High Command, and because of his name.

"Fresh meat," grumbled Captain Lucan Farron, working a couple of fingers into the base of his spine and massaging the intricate circuitry and cold, hard steel beneath that replaced his original biology. "They sent us fresh meat, alright. Most of them barely looked old enough to shave."

"We were barely old enough to shave when we started, Lucan," countered Manfred Dolan, Major and second in command of the overall regiment. He was a squat, bullish-looking man who had half of his limbs replaced with bionics over the course of his career, indicative of his bold and reckless style of always being on the attack. Lucan made a small sound of derision with a click of his tongue and looked away. Once upon a time, he would have met that jest head on and turned it to his favour, but Lucan had changed a lot over the last few years.

"Enough," said Gaius Nova lightly, rubbing at his freshly-shaved chin, and giving his bionic leg a quick stretch. Like Manfred, Gaius Nova was half bionic, though his bionics were handsomely crafted, with both featuring a few small plates of adamantium, shorn down and filed into a shape more suitable for the human anatomy. His blonde hair was thinning and greying, but it was still his own, and he still maintained a peak physical state, even through the past three years of ennui and stagnation. He was still as good with a blade as he had been three years prior.

"Three years of doing very little and now we finally have the chance to get back out there and do some good for the galaxy and for Northam," the Colonel continued, "and your initial reaction is to complain. They might be fresh meat but we do have six months to whip them all into shape."

"You mean the drillers," corrected Captain Lexanus of E Company, his face as stony as ever as they reached the transport monorail and stepped inside through the automatic doors. "I seriously doubt any of us will get the chance to go down there and do deck thrusts with the recruits, do you Colonel?"

"I do actually," Nova retorted as if the answer were obvious, and he looked between the others. "The reason why this regiment has survived so far is because of the command structure, because we make ourselves visible. We might be their commanders, but we all started in the same place."

"Well don't let Commisar Dorn hear you saying that," Farron retorted, "lest he insist it's bad practice. He's got the authority to execute any of us if he finds us wanting, after all."

"When did Lucan Farron became such a cynical bastard?" asked Lexanus without mirth.

"Around the time I was nearly paralysed," Farron responded instantly, then he looked away and that was the end of that particular discussion, if the thunderous silence was any indication. He began to absent-mindedly rub at the base of his spine again, despite the presence of his fellow officers. "Oh, and the fact I'm essentially demoted from my old position didn't help either. Turfed out of command of C Company with the scratch of a stylus."

Nova let out a small, tired sigh. "Lucan"- he began to say, before he was cut off by the transport coming to a sudden halt with a screech of hydraulics and braking mechanisms, making them lose their balance for a brief moment. The doors whooshed open, and a pair of Navy armsmen entered, picking their own spare corner to occupy.

"Is there anything else Colonel?" asked Farron with a note of bitterness in his voice as he stepped out onto the tramway platform, talking over his shoulder. "Otherwise, I'd like to go and look at Northam Prime once more before we translate into the Warp." And that was it: without any further prompting, he just walked away out of sight, vanishing through an exit portal, heading for the nearest observation deck.

"He'll come around Gaius," commented Dolan, even as the doors to the tram slid shut. "He needs time."

"He needs to get over himself," added Lexanus, blunt as ever. "Does it really matter which company he leads? He's still here, plenty of more aren't."

"It really matters to him which company he heads," Dolan responded, giving the E Company commander a pointed look. They bickered on for a short while, but Nova offered no further comment as he ruminated on the sudden changes of the man he considered one of the two brothers he had never had. The rest of the trip continued in silence, until at their final stop – somewhere at the midpoint of the ship – they were met on the platform by the 19th regiment's newest addition.

"Colonel Nova," announced a tall man with a face like a blade: thin and sharp, with grey eyes just as sharp, in full dress uniform, despite the casual appearance of his contemporaries. A sheathed rapier hung at his hip, and the pips of a captain were pinned to his high collar. The man gave a practiced curtsy, as the others fell in step beside the new arrival. Lexanus couldn't keep himself from smirking and shaking his head. "I trust the new recruits arrived in good order?"

"They did, Captain Parker," Nova responded. "And now we have six months of warp travel to look forwards to, while they get moulded into faithful Sons of Northam."

"Ah, well that won't take long at all," insisted Parker, still staring straight ahead as they marched down the wide passage. "There's plenty from Fylnn's Respite, as usual. They will make a strong core for the new companies alongside the veterans."

"Yes," Dolan nodded, "but they are still untested. The first battle will be the most important time for them. They'll either swim, or they'll sink fast."

"Well let's hope we have more swimmers than sinkers."

Adonis Parker: descendant of one of the Founders, celebrated PDF commander, cold and entirely logical…and new commander of the 19th's C Company. He'd just been shunted in below Dolan and Nova, without any fanfare or much prior warning from High Command. And now Lucan Farron had found himself suddenly cut adrift from his comrades. For the first time in his life, it seemed like Nova's personality wouldn't smooth over the cracks here. The 19th had come close to annihilation on Elpis and Bolias, and now this. They looked almost ready to fall apart at the seams. Just then, an automated announcement caught him off guard.

" _Warp translation about to commence. All personnel please pray for safe travel."_

* * *

Out in the gulf of space, a small, purple sliver was suddenly torn in the very fabric of existence, as the ship's Navigator began to chart their treacherous path away from Northam Prime. This sliver grew and swelled in size, until it became a visible wound against the sheer blackness of space. Soon it was large enough to swallow a light cruiser, and it continued to grow. Baleful energies glowed within, enough to drive any sane man mad if they dared to look too closely.

The _Star of Northam_ suddenly engaged its warp drives, and began to sluggishly pull itself out of Northam Prime's high anchor. Then there was the barely visible shimmer as the Gellar fields activated, lest everyone on board be torn apart by madness incarnate. The great nose of the vessel began to enter the maelstrom, and then the rest of the immense structure began to follow: ribbed adamantium and steel, countless weapon batteries and shielded entry and viewing ports. Soon it had plunged into the chaos of the Immaterium, and then the wound closed behind it in its wake.


End file.
